


I Think About You In The Summertime

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Day At The Beach, Gen, M/M, Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-14 03:59:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/832460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott is the one who suggests it, lying shoulder to shoulder in Stiles' backyard the night after school lets out. He's set to start working the summer schedule next week, practically full time, but he looks and sounds freer than he has in months, giddy relief burbling through their shared exhaustion.</p><p>A day in two parts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Think About You In The Summertime

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scoutsxhonor](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=scoutsxhonor).



Scott is the one who suggests it, lying shoulder to shoulder in Stiles' backyard the night after school lets out. He's set to start working the summer schedule next week, practically full time, but he looks and sounds freer than he has in months, giddy relief burbling through their shared exhaustion.

Between them, Stiles is the better swimmer, but he can never remember to re-apply sunscreen, is constantly turning his head out of the water to phantom strains of impossible female laughter. He says yes because Scott asked, and gets up at sunrise on Saturday morning, pads around quietly digging out old towels and ice packs for the dusty cooler. His dad comes up behind him while he's tossing them into the trunk, in rumpled uniform with a cup of coffee and the large beach umbrella, squeezes him on the shoulder before vanishing back into the house. 

It's two and a half hours out from Beacon Hills, maybe a few minutes less on the way back if they leave after dark and keep up past the speed limit. They stop at the 24-hour Mexican convenience store on the far side of town; Stiles goes to pee and comes out to find Scott paying for half a dozen coconuts and glass bottles of Coke. 

It gets hot and glaringly sunny on the way there, but the water is still glacial, barely warm enough to stay in for twenty minutes without losing feeling in his fingers, toes, balls. They find out that Scott can't hold his breath for much longer than before and still has the same shitty arm technique. Still doesn't last more than a minute alone after Stiles begs out and retreats back up the shore.  

Stiles drops onto the sand beside his towel, wriggles until he's a few inches deep and relaxes into the rough, dry heat. Before, he'd never understood the appeal of lying around _not_ in the water; now it's new enough that he can close his eyes and listen to the susurrus of the tide, seagulls squawking indignantly, Scott puttering around behind him, without memories tugging unbidden at his throat.

"Shit, we forgot to bring a knife."

He cracks his eyes open; the effort feels gargantuan. He always forgets how quickly he gets sun-drunk, pensive and wistful, like the light and heat melts everything away to leave only a reduced, concentrated version of himself. "What?"

"We forgot a knife, for the coconuts."

" _You_ forgot," Stiles mumbles. "I didn' even know you were gonna get them."

Scott huffs, but he sounds like he's smiling. " _Dude_."

" _Dude._ " 

Scott appears at the edge of his shuttered vision, crouching beside him with a coconut under each arm. "I'm gonna go find a food hut who'll open them for us."

Stiles feels warm and lazy and belligerent, enough to say, "Do you have claws or not?"

"Don't you remember—"

"The oranges." Scott laughs wide and open, and Stiles slips into it too, sudden burst of affection in his chest. "Go ahead, I'll stay here and defend the castle."

Scott rolls his eyes, standing up messily so he gets sand all over Stiles' side. "You're _welcome,_ Scott. You're the best, Scott."

"You love me!" he yells after Scott's retreating back, habit over necessity now. He shifts a little half-heartedly, unwilling to actually move, and ends up with sand in every other place that wasn't already covered. It sticks all over his skin, microscopically thin layer of old stone and shell and glass, the most delicate kind of armour between him and the rest of the world. 

 

. 

 

Derek finds him by scent rather than sight, following the trace of sea salt and sticky-sweet through the fresh night breeze until he hits the fence, doesn't even think before he's vaulting over it and up to the roof.

Stiles looks up at him, face calm and open, heartbeat slow. He has no business being like this, lying belly down on the still-hot asphalt tiles, old book and a plate of beet slices balanced in front of him, when it's barely two days from the full moon and the Alpha pack is running around. 

Stiles turns onto his side towards him. "Hey."

"Hi." Derek forces himself to sit and stay still, fresh wave of scent wafting around him. 

"I thought you were busy tonight."

"Knew you were with Scott, didn't want to—" He feels too raw and overwhelmed to be anything but honest, just blurts it out. "You smell like summer."

"Okay," Stiles says slowly.

"No, it's not—" He breathes in again and can't even feel frustrated anymore, exhales slowly; everything feels hot and hazy, syrup-slow. There was a solstice celebration, a place they went every year where the nymphs and dryads danced, and Stiles smells like that, ocean and green sugars. "Never mind."

"I went to the beach with Scott today," Stiles offers. "Maybe that's it?"

It's been a long time since he's tracked the wrong scent, even if it's a common combination like sugar and salt at its most basic. That he made that mistake, with strange wolves in town, and it lead him to Stiles—he doesn't really want to examine it too closely right now. "Yeah, probably."

Stiles closes his book gently, fingers curling around the spine. "You want to—"

"Yeah," he says, steadier this time, and Stiles is already swinging down into his window. He takes a moment to push the change back down, get himself under control. "You want the plate?"

"No, leave it up there." His voice is oddly muffled; Derek drops down to find him peeling off his t-shirt.

He takes off his own shirt, barely unbuttons his jeans before he turns around to find Stiles on the bed in his underwear, so he steps over and kisses him, tastes the salt and sugar and fast-food grease.

Stiles doesn't let him stop, curls a hand around his neck, loose and unconcerned, ends up pushing Derek's pants halfway down his ass and giving him the world's slowest handjob, strokes slow and steady, fingers just glancing at his balls. By the time Derek comes through his fingers and over his stomach, his thighs are shaking from holding himself up, and it's mostly Stiles licking softly into his open mouth.

When he can move properly again, Stiles is flushing in a familiar way so Derek moves down and takes him in, one long swallow. Stiles doesn't tug at him, just puts one hand in his hair and sets one of Derek's onto his hips. Derek presses _down_ into the mattress experimentally and watches his eyes slide shut, breath hitching.

Stiles comes quietly, barely moving or groaning, just a soft, lovely weight on his tongue. Derek licks him clean and leans his head against his hip, lets his eyes shift in the darkness. Now he can see the sea salt in his hair, in the crease of his elbows, mica and quartz and harmless bits of glass clinging to his neck, the backs of his thighs. Finer salt tracks on his cheeks, something precious and already fractured.

**Author's Note:**

> Also on [tumblr](http://bacarat.tumblr.com/).


End file.
